


Happily Ever After

by escspace, Queen_of_the_Ruckus



Series: Happily Ever After the End of the Fucking World [1]
Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Alcohol, Arcade, Fluff, M/M, Modern Ragar AU, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_of_the_Ruckus/pseuds/Queen_of_the_Ruckus
Summary: Raizel and Ragar spend a day together experiencing and reflecting upon the humdrum wonders of the always baffling human world. And perhaps they get Frankenstein and the police involved as well.A prologue to “The End of the Fucking World,” coming soon to an Ao3 near you.
Relationships: Cadis Etrama di Raizel/Frankenstein (Noblesse), Frankenstein (Noblesse)/Ragar Kertia, Frankenstein/Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama Di Raizel, Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama di Raizel
Series: Happily Ever After the End of the Fucking World [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646971
Kudos: 28
Collections: Modern Mundanity





	Happily Ever After

The front window of the seaside ice cream shop boasted a large ‘Help Wanted’ sign, the words printed neatly in bold red letters. That, more than the flashing neon depiction of a colorful ice cream cone, caught and held Raizel’s attention. Ragar, ever-attentive and impressively quick despite having long since forfeited Kartas, stopped with him and followed his gaze, an action so smooth and instantaneous that they would have appeared perfectly in sync to any observing humans. This was not unexpected. In his presence, Sir Raizel stopped frequently, their goals unhurried and Ragar a sympathetic guide to the myriad curiosities surrounding them in the human world. 

Raizel stared at the notice for a long moment, his brow furrowed faintly in concern, before finally looking to Ragar for clarification and answers. Nearly everything he encountered in this wondrous place begged some manner of explanation.

“Sir Raizel, it means that they have positions available for work. They are not in danger and do not require aid.”

Raizel’s expression softened noticeably. After a moment of further consideration, he pushed his way through the glass door, a small bell signaling their presence to the minimal stock of employees within. Ragar accompanied him closely, lingering at his side to explain the process of ordering. The choices were such that Ragar felt it safest to pick from the pre-designed menu options, rather than selecting from the seemingly infinite combinations of ice cream and candy and cone. 

With two impressively laden cones in hand, he allowed Raizel to lead them both outside before handing him the one which seemed to best spark his interest, a messily arranged scoop of blue cotton candy cream mixed with marshmallow fluff and other white sweets. He kept the impressively engineered feat of chocolate and assorted candies for himself, nibbling at it with a joyous content.

They lingered for a while, wandering aimlessly and enjoying the sunshine, basking in the warm happiness of the humans going about their lives. Raizel’s poise was such that his white school uniform remained pristine even as he licked daintily at the precariously melting disaster. 

Ragar observed him in quiet appreciation, tipping his mask down to nip discreetly at his dessert. A hard, frozen gummy worm caught between his teeth, and he proceeded to drag it unbecomingly from his cone, unable to cover his shame even with a hand as he was still both pulling down his mask and holding a cone. 

At the first sign of this inelegant trouble, Raizel glanced tactfully away, his expression flat, his face colored only by the artificial blue traced faintly along the inside of his lips.

Even after Ragar had managed to recover his dignity and his mask, Raizel remained facing away from him. Ragar’s embarrassed flush melted away at Raizel’s continued and endearing fascination. Being in his company allowed Ragar to stop and take in his surroundings as he had rarely allowed himself. 

He was used to accompanying Frankenstein, who always seemed to have some urgent need to complete whatever task was at hand, and a strong disdain for that which was without use. His long-time companion was never so easily amused as himself, his comments biting and his focus pointed. (Though he had made many allowances for Ragar through the years, enjoying both the act of teaching and Ragar's interest in human undertakings.) 

But Sir Raizel? He was amazed by the smallest of things. The time they spent together was refreshing and bright. They marvelled at the human world together, and Ragar delighted in explaining its mysteries to him, prideful of the wisdom he’d gleaned from Frankenstein and his own uncounted experiences.

Ragar had stumbled into his admiration for the previous Lord gradually, over the course of many human lifetimes spent working closely with him in his court. With Sir Raizel, his admiration hadn't been sparked until his close companionship and feelings for Frankenstein had landed him in such constant proximity to the Noblesse, his admirable nature and adorable quirks suddenly laid out for him on display, both through Frankenstein’s praise and through interacting with Raizel directly. Raizel became, clearly to Ragar, honorable beyond reproach. And Ragar knew that those two, bonded and glorious, matched each other in this way. He could only be beholden that they had chosen to welcome him as well into their exceptional lives when Ragar was nothing special, not at all.

When Ragar noticed what Raizel was staring at so intently, any lingering embarrassment vanished in light of his new objective. 

Within the sprawling entrance of the neon arcade, among the other blinking, flashing, and sounding cyber shapes, stared back the glossy black eyes of plush prizes stowed seductively within the glass of claw machines. They beckoned challengers with enough tokens on their play cards to cash in and cash out, tempting passersby with smiling, pastel colored toys soft to the touch. Raizel was pointedly staring at the round, unassuming shape of a stuffed cat patterned like a pineapple. Its downy fuzz and benignly plump form daring to be held and gently squeezed.

Ragar stepped forward, past the threshold of the play center entrance. “I will win one for you as a token of my regard, Sir Raizel,” he decided.

Raizel nodded slightly, clearly touched by the gesture as a gentle blush colored his face.

He went about the business of seeking a machine from which he could purchase an electronic pay card to deposit cash into. Card in hand, Ragar faced his opponent, his own intense gaze reflected back at him on the glass separating the plush toys from their soon-to-be rightful owners. He gazed down and swiped the card on the machine, and the dangling claw mechanically slid in front of him, ready to be commanded with the colorful joystick now in Ragar’s grasp. With no fault in concentration, Ragar manipulated the flimsy claw exactly over the toy he deemed most easily lifted. His trained, sharp eyes knew perfectly well how to gauge position, and he was not one millimeter off center, he was sure. Decidedly, and perhaps a little smug, he pressed the button to engage the claw, and it lazily lowered itself down, opened its mechanical maw, and grasped at the smiling cat.

Then, pathetically, the cat fell back into place, seemingly untouched, as the claw returned to its original resting position.

Ragar blinked. His brows creased. Wordlessly and without another second wasted, he swiped his card again, this time choosing an alternative target for the claw. And in much the same manner, the machine remained stingy with its rewards. Ragar straightened, tugging at his mask and staring at the plush toys, whose smiles almost seemed contemptuous and mocking now. “Sir Raizel, I will not fail you.”

Before Ragar could attempt a third time, someone strolled casually up to the machine next to him, swiped his card, and rather absently won a round stuffed dog. The man, smiling to himself with mundane confidence, turned around with prize in hand and handed it to his beaming companion. She accepted the toy from him with a sweet smile.

“See, babe? I got the magic touch!” he jested.

“Oh my god, don’t be embarrassing!” Nonetheless, she laughed right along with him as they strolled away with their newly won, fuzzy friend tucked under the girl’s arm.

Ragar looked back at the cats. He swiped his card again, grasped the joystick again, and promised again to emerge victorious for his honorable Sir Raizel. Then he tried again and again. And then perhaps again.

* * *

They returned home, empty handed and emptied wallets, to find Frankenstein with a cup of coffee and a home design magazine on the living room table. He was scrolling through his phone past pictures of various outdoor seating arrangements before noticing their entrance. Frankenstein slipped his phone into his pocket, stood up, and bowed his head in greeting his master. “You are both home rather early,” he observed.

Boldly, Ragar was the first to clue him in on their financial situation. “Frankenstein...I am in need of your charity.”

Frankenstein’s expression flitted curiously.

Raizel nodded, bolstering Ragar. “And I no longer have money to buy lunch.”

“Huh?” The inelegant sound escaped him unbidden. Frankenstein blinked at them both, confused and vaguely concerned. “Master, I gave you three hundred thousand won yesterday.” Sharply, he narrowed his eyes at Ragar. “And Ragar, I pay for your credit card. What could you possibly need cash for?”

“Frankenstein, the credit card cannot be used at the place we wish to engage with,” Ragar informed.

With disarming suspicion lacing his eyes, Frankenstein scrutinized him. His lips parted with intent to say something, but Raizel spoke before he was able to get a word out.

“Perhaps we should apply for a position where ‘help’ is ‘wanted.’”

Ragar’s eyes widened with admiration and revelation. “You are wise, Sir Raizel. Perhaps the ice cream shop will have a use for our skills and will compensate us with the money we seek.”

“Yuna and Shinwoo also work at similar establishments for monetary compensation.”

Frankenstein’s expression flattened out, blanching, unbelieving that Raizel would suggest that he put himself through such work. Swiftly, he reached into his pocket to withdraw a stack of cash from his black leather wallet. “There is no need to go that far, Master. I apologize.” He extended his hand, generously offering the money. “I did not mean to question you.”

Raizel graciously accepted the cash, but at the clear self deprecation and self reprimand radiating from Frankenstein, he reached out with a hand to pat him on the shoulder, comforting his bonded.

“Please let me know if you require any further assistance,” Frankenstein said.

At this, Raizel glanced with an unspoken weight at Ragar. Ragar, quickly reading this gaze, the question in those eyes as plain as the unembellished vanilla soft serve at the ice cream parlor, gravely nodded.

After a moment, Raizel, eyes alight with hope, tender enough to disarm his suspicion edged bonded, asked softly, “Are you skilled with the claw machine, Frankenstein?”

Frankenstein stared back dumbly in stunned silence.

Tugging at his mask, his face heating, Ragar added, “I am...not very good with claw machines…”

“Oh my god—“ Frankenstein’s chest swelled with a deep, befuddled breath, and he ran a hand through his smooth, always perfectly tousled hair. After a few seconds of processing the unfolded events, he sagged, defeated but with wry amusement curving his lips upwards. “Show me what it is you want to win.”

* * *

They arrived at the arcade again not long after, a new player in their midst. Frankenstein made short work of winning prizes for both Raizel and Ragar, the cat for Raizel, the dog for Ragar. The two of them each clutched their gifted prizes dearly.

“You are indeed impressive, Frankenstein,” said Raizel.

“I should have known when I had first confronted your notable ability on the shores of Lukedonia nine centuries ago that your skills extend to far more than just combat.”

Frankenstein gazed at them with a weary expression. “Thank you...I suppose.”

Ragar nodded with restrained enthusiasm as he revealed, “I am glad that you have emerged victorious for Sir Raizel, whereas I could not.” He pulled the stuffed dog close to himself. “And for myself as well.”

Frankenstein had the habit of wearing an outward cynicism, a hard, rough coat to anyone not Raizel, but before Ragar’s truly genuine praise and appreciation, he softened just enough to smile, exhaling away and tension previously accompanying the absurd drain on their wallets. “Well, I should thank you for your attempt at showing Master a good time, even if you were bested by a mere children’s toy.” His smile turned pointed briefly. “You can spend the rest of the cash on whatever you’d like. Master, if you run out, I’ll be sure to provide you with lunch money tomorrow.” Frankenstein glanced at his phone, always alert and always occupied. “I must run a few errands before the stores close. We will reconvene here.”

They nodded at each other and parted ways to become occupied with further personal adventures.

* * *

Ragar and Raizel spent their idle time peering and poking curiously at machines of all sorts of shapes and colors and functions, lighting up at their touch or rumbling against them. Buttons of confounding game after confounding game begged bystanders to slam them dramatically at precise moments in the hopes of scoring tickets to be redeemed at the glossy and glamorous prize counter. There were toys, tools, and a small flatscreen TV to be won. Then, they spotted it, sitting on a shelf high above them, the rotund, squat, 90 centimeter form of a blue, smiling, sausage shaped plush toy with small rounded fins of sorts protruding from its back. The label in front of it read “DINOSAUR 30,000 tickets,” though it hardly resembled any known creature of the Mesozoic Era.

They looked at it for a long moment, then they looked at each other, objective decided. It was only fair that Frankenstein received a prize as well for all of his hard work.

With drive and fervor no less than a Union base raiding mission, they sought out the machines and the games that would be most profitable to them. Raizel gave his most earnest efforts, winning them a handful of tickets on their shared play card, but for the most part, his lack of coordination would doom them to an eternity of electronic trials if it were only Raizel pursuing the holy number of 30,000.

Ragar, sharp, precise, objective orientated, quickly became accustomed to those games of skill. In skee-ball, he rolled into the “100” slot each and every time after familiarizing himself with the shape and weight of the ball. In stacking sliding digital blocks that moved across the screen faster every round, he stacked them all the way to the heavens, scoring jackpots multiple times with his inhuman deftness. Rather quickly, their goal became less and less lofty.

They again approached the polished counter guarding the prizes. Through the throngs of people also hoping to redeem their electronic tickets, they presented their card to the red-aproned employee. Practically in sync, they indicated the soft, round, dinosaur creature. Raizel lugged it away with both arms wrapped around its squishy form flopped over from its own weight.

A new, bulky friend added to their party, they continued onwards to experience entertaining human wonders for themselves, their senses overtaken by mystifying inventions surely inconceivable to the slow, stagnant nature of Lukedonian nobility. They were surrounded by the fervor of play, invention, entertainment, and capital.

A small audience had gathered around the humble stage of two Dance Rush Stardom machines. The numerous lights of the platform trailed the skilled dancers’ feet as they moved on beat, every beat.

The sound of people playing and chattering was punctuated by the rhythmic digitized gunfire of shooter games. In the further distance, they encountered the warmly lit scene of a shooting gallery, its numerous play guns laid out in a row and catching the light with the aesthetics of danger. They drew Ragar in with predictable magnetism.

He picked up one of the guns, feeling its uncanny lightness, nowhere near the robust construction of his own weapons. “This is a shooting game?” he inquired of the bored-looking employee manning the station.

“Yep, the targets move and you shoot them.”

Ragar nodded deeply, profoundly. He gave a glance to Sir Raizel, who, peeking from behind the dinosaur, was watching him with anticipation.

Ragar looked back to the employee. “I would like to play.”

“Your card?”

He handed it over, and the young man swiped for him. A playful chime indicated the beginning of the game, and the background mechanical whirrs of moving parts clued Ragar in to the locations of anticipatory targets.

The click of a disengaged safety. Ragar whipped out his own, far superior firearm from the holster under his black leather jacket with blinding speed. His bullets tore through the gallery, making short work of destroying all targets, hidden or not.

“What the fu—“

Someone screamed a little belatedly.

“He’s got a gun!” another reported to the police on the phone.

Ragar stiffened and quickly tucked his aggressive weapon away. Warily, he looked to Sir Raizel, who only returned his doom-struck gaze, lost as to what to do. Throughout the commotion, their dinosaur friend continued to smile.

Suddenly, there was a familiar presence by them, materializing out of the neon lights and shadows of the arcade, slipping through the spaces in between scrambling people like phantoms.

“Frankenstein.” Ragar scanned their surroundings; a panicked hysteria was rising into the air. “I believe it is time for us to leave.”

“Master can’t get arrested, and this little incident will have to be covered up before any Union notices.” Heavily, like he alone bore the weight of the end of the world, Frankenstein sighed. To himself he muttered, “I leave you alone for ten minutes…” After a second instance of disbelief, he looked back up to his companions, grounding himself. “Let’s go,” he said, and the three of them swiftly fled the scene of the crime.

* * *

A scant hour later, and several cities away, the three fugitives from justice made their way to a cheerful little bar, a place with good reviews according to a cursory search on Frankenstein’s phone. Raizel was no longer wearing his distinctive YeRan uniform, and Frankenstein prayed vainly and without genuine hope that he wouldn’t have to waylay any negative press involving his school’s possible involvement in the shooting at the arcade.

A bar was an automatic choice for Frankenstein at that point. His frequent haunting of such places had begun as a necessary diversion and reprieve from his long search and subsequent failures, an excuse to wallow and a device to allow himself to temporarily forget. To allow himself to see the object of his search in the human figures around them. 

Now that Raizel had been recovered and was well enough to accompany them, it was almost an effort to accept his presence as reality, and not the alcohol-drenched illusion that Frankenstein had allowed himself for so long.

To Ragar, Sir Raizel’s presence was a tangible relief for his dear friend’s long suffering, though he had been tempted at times to give himself over to the comforts of illusion, as well. The missing piece of their company returned, the driving force of their actions now walking among them, his presence was a soothing delight. His honorable lover was safely nestled between strong guardians, untouchable, and would not be allowed to come to sorrow.

Raizel both knew and did not know the extent to which he had been deified by his companions in his absence. It had always been that way for him, considering his position and his seclusion in Lukedonia. He had always been something of a myth, even amongst his own people. But no longer. He was determined to solidify his place among those who lived and breathed, to carve out something real for himself. Sensing the waves of nostalgia bordering on deja vu, he moved to walk closer to his companions, brushing physically against Frankenstein and Ragar to assert his own presence.

Frankenstein smiled at the gentle nudge, scanning the room before homing in on a promising spot and leading them over. Ragar noticeably brightened at the sight of dart boards next to the intimate arrangement of low chairs and accompanying table. Raizel and Ragar took seats, both still reverently clutching their plush prizes. Frankenstein’s expression remained impassive as he draped his own oversized stuffed ‘dinosaur’ (he had been informed that this was its identity) over a seat and left to order drinks at the bar, glaring black daggers at anyone who dared to eye his companions with any amount of mocking or mirth. 

When he returned with their first round, Ragar was earnestly explaining the game to a raptly attentive Raizel. Frankenstein pulled up a fourth seat to their table, opting to leave one for the oversized arcade prize rather than sit with it in his lap. To preserve it from possible spilled drinks and not out of embarrassment, of course.

A contented smile filled his very soul as Frankenstein stared at his companions. Raizel spared a moment to smile warmly in his direction in response, Ragar following his gaze closely and doing the same. In light of the moment, Frankenstein briefly considered staying his hand. But the moment quickly passed and he decided otherwise, tipping generous amounts of his own personal poison into each of their drinks.

“Alright, Ragar. Shall we play reward or punishment this time?” Frankenstein quirked in curiosity.

He could see the gears turning behind such serious eyes, attempting to turn the matter over in thorough consideration. A thoughtful frown was barely perceptible beneath the darkness of his mask. “Sir Raizel is unfamiliar with this game. We shall play ‘reward’ so he is not at a disadvantage.”

“Mhm, I _see_ ,” Frankenstein said soberly, sarcasm as dry as gin in his tonic. “And I’m sure this has _nothing at all_ to do with your own handicap. Indeed, you’ve chosen most selflessly.” He collected the various darts strewn about the area and proceeded to verify that the tips were sufficiently straight before divvying them up between the three players.

“Frankenstein, I fear you must have forgotten your own handicap when we first sparred in Lukedonia. It would be dishonorable to deny Sir Raizel that same courtesy.” Ragar tilted his head back in feigned self-righteous reproach, eyes flashing almost playfully. “This way, you might also have a chance to win.”

Frankenstein snorted, gesturing grandly for his friend to begin.

Ragar made a very earnest show of stance and technique for Raizel’s benefit, before deftly sinking three darts into the center bullseye, with just enough space between for them to sink deeply into the fibers of the board. 

An exquisite show of control, but Frankenstein brushed it aside without acknowledgement. For his own set, Frankenstein threw with his off hand, though with just as much instructional emphasis for his master’s benefit. As with Ragar, all were sunk to perfection in the center of the board.

When Raizel stepped up to the line, he arranged himself carefully, then allowed his companions to make adjustments to his stance. Both men leaned in intimately close as they guided him to move his leg precisely here, turn himself like so, raise his arm like this, their hands gentle and lingering.

The waitress coming by to check for additional orders almost dropped her tray.

Satisfied at last with their handiwork, Frankenstein and Ragar stepped back, moving a respectful distance away to observe and give advice. Raizel’s throws were disappointing, but not unexpected. The first fell flat, the second embedded itself in the wall three feet away from the board, and the third somehow managed to strike the wall sideways and bounce back. The two more athletic men turned away to give Raizel his privacy, though the atmosphere around him seemed to chill somewhat and darken. 

Frankenstein and Ragar drained their glasses, their due ‘reward’ for the tie, before closing Raizel’s hands around his plush and maneuvering him to better observe their next throws.

In the next round, Ragar threw all three darts at once, again landing them perfectly. Frankenstein, not to be outdone, rolled his eyes before mirroring the feat once again with his off hand. 

Raizel was thoroughly dazzled, his eyes wide with amazement, when he again took the line. He stood stock still for many long minutes, focused and playing through his prior mistakes again and again. When at last he finally threw, his dart flew with swift purpose. 

Directly towards another patron, back turned, innocently collecting his own darts from a neighboring board. 

Frankenstein flew with an impossible speed to intercept, his movements too quick to follow. But his hand grasped at nothing, his eyes blinking rapidly in confusion. He followed the path of Ragar’s gaze to see Raizel’s stray throw pinned to the wall, a second dart improbably piercing the metal. After a moment of silence and several sincere assurances to the lucky patron that his proximity was mere coincidence, Frankenstein returned to pat Ragar heavily on the shoulder in concession. 

He turned to offer Ragar a drink for his victory, but recalled that they’d already finished their first round. And Frankenstein wasn’t about to take something from his Master to give to someone else.

“Why didn’t our waitress ever come by? I’ll go get us another round.” Frankenstein excused himself from their table, collecting their empty glasses and bowing lightly to Raizel before leaving.

Raizel and Ragar sat in silence for a moment, the strong pulse of distorted music giving their absence of speech a quiet life. Raizel sipped daintily at his drink, forehead creasing slightly at the bitter taste on his tongue, a dry fire spreading through his core. Several more minutes passed before Ragar heard Raizel’s quiet “Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” Ragar replied automatically, though his face flushed lightly with pride at the acknowledgement. 

“It has never been ‘nothing’.” Raizel collected and held his attention completely, and Ragar was suddenly aware that they had not been discussing the events of that evening. Raizel took another dutiful sip of the drink he’d been given, swallowing it down after a moment’s hesitation. “You have been good company for him, and have given up much. I am grateful.” Another drink, this one more substantial. Then another. “I am envious.”

Ragar blinked, taken aback at the abrupt confession. He sat back a little straighter, wondering if perhaps it had not been wise of Frankenstein to dose Raizel’s drink so heavily. “What is there to be envious of, Sir Raizel? My actions were to be expected.” Ragar’s thoughts spun, dutifully attempting to bridge the gap between human dart games and centuries of searching, his mind mildly blurred under the influence of Frankenstein’s noble poison. 

Raizel’s silence lingered, dark and oppressive. The distance between them grew with each passing moment, although neither of them had physically moved.

“Events move quickly in the human world and Frankenstein and I have experienced much together. But we have spent our time trying to find you.” Ragar reached out, concerned that Raizel’s sadness was cloying around him. An empty manor before the advent of Frankenstein. He rested a hand on him solidly, providing a weighted reminder of the present.

Raizel looked up, wistful sorrow and petty wishes for experiences and competency he does not possess etched plainly into such a grand soul. Songs changed and people moved in ignorance around them, occasionally sparing an amused glance at Frankenstein’s prize. Raizel reached up to cover Ragar’s hand with his own. The distance between them fell away.

Raizel’s smile, small and bittersweet, captured Ragar’s attention. To touch like this, so readily, was at times still novel to them both. It was an audacious, intrusive, intimate act so rare among Lukedonian nobles, and rarer still for someone of Raizel’s status. But within the glow of the bar’s humdrum activity, they could both be a little more human, their history unknown to the other patrons. “I wish...I could be as good as you…” Raizel confessed.

“Sir Raizel—“

Before Ragar could form the rest of his thoughts, Frankenstein returned with tall drinks lined with slices of fresh pineapple, and a glass of clear rum for each of them. He handed them out with a veiled tension, feeling Raizel’s distress clearly and attempting to dispel it without addressing it directly.

Moving delicately, he retrieved Raizel’s stylized pineapple cat and explained its relation to the unfamiliar fruit that so ostentatiously garnished his drink. Raizel stared at it, attention waylaid and transfixed, taking in the new as he did several dozen times a day, affording special care to something that his Bonded had presented to him directly.

After a characteristically long pause, Franken and Ragar exchanged a look. Ragar lifted his instructively to demonstrate.

Ragar had tried it before; the taste ignited a memory in him, of tropical places and centuries past, of one island in particular. Of latching on to Frankenstein’s shoulder and refusing to relent, as it occurred to his friend that the object of their search might be impossible. That Raizel might be hidden from them anywhere. There simply hadn’t been a way to tell. And Frankenstein, grief-stricken before the magnitude of their search within the vast universe, thought that perhaps it would be best to disappear himself to places unknowable—lost, gone, just as his master was, to worlds unreachable to the living.

The bottom of the ocean or an empty apartment was not so terrible by comparison.

The coconut drink was icey and sweet, the glass of concoction-spiked rum leaving Raizel a little spacy. Colors, scents, and sounds rose up to overload his senses, and he sat back to enjoy the comfortable glow of his Bonded and Ragar as they bantered and played in ways profound to him. 

Raizel watched as his companions drank and drank and drank. 

* * *

Later, at home, Ragar wandered over to Frankenstein’s room. The door was already open, and Raizel sat inside on a comfortable chair by the window, tea set out for him on a nearby end table. He nodded to Ragar fondly, and gestured for him to join him in waiting for Franken to finish up his chores in the lab. Ragar poured for himself into a thoughtfully arranged third porcelain tea cup. Silently, he sat by Raizel, keeping him company. Occasionally, he tugged discreetly at his mask to sip delicately at the perfectly brewed jasmine tea, but for the most part, he just observed his companion.

His return into their lives was still fairly fresh, and his unchanged appearance played strange games with Ragar’s perception of time and his recollection of space. They could just as well have been back in Sir Raizel’s home in Lukedonia, awaiting Frankenstein’s company just the same as they had back then. Only now, amidst the warmth and tenderness, lay a wary protectiveness as well, such as only Frankenstein had displayed in the years before his disappearance. Raizel had been taken from them once, and they still had a ways to go before the Union and the Noble traitors were securely dealt with.

On Raizel’s lap rested his prize from the arcade. It gazed back up at him with a bright, sincere longing, expression stitched convincingly into the fabric. After a long while, he looked back up at Ragar, meeting eyes far more lovely, but set with a remarkably similar light. Rai’s face colored slightly under the force of such a stare, the intensity of Ragar’s quiet emotions palpable in the air around them. 

“Frankenstein has put his prize away. With other small things of which I have no knowledge.” Raizel paused, letting the weight of what he did not say sink in and then dissipate somewhat. “I am grateful that you have stayed with him, Ragar,” he emphasized once again, as if any number of words could even attempt to capture all that he truly meant.

Raizel’s efforts of putting such personal emotions into words, all because he wished for Ragar to _know_ his regard for him, was clear to them both. Perhaps Ragar faced the world with his own brand of naivety, but he had lived long enough and been observant enough to realize the magnitude of Sir Raizel’s changes throughout their long, long timeline. Raizel spoke more, even if still quietly and with great reservation; he went out into the world more, indulging in benign, pointless, fun things—great things, human things; he smiled more, ate more, played more. Simply, he lived more. And all of this filled Ragar with an acute personal happiness.

Ragar smiled up at him, his eyes gentle and content, his face warmed in return. “And my gratitude for _you_ , Sir Raizel, has stayed as well.” The weight of Raizel's regard was heavy, but not so heavy as it once was. “And it will stay, for eons into the future, with your company.” Even through the seals, Raizel’s change in state was obvious. It was enough to make Ragar’s heart twist at their failures, at allowing their dear Raizel to fall to such harm, dampening his expression, but the following silence that fell between them was one of comfortable companionship.

After a long moment, Raizel set down his tea with Ragar following suit. “Frankenstein is finished in his lab.”

He rose and reverently placed the pineapple cat in his vacated seat. Raizel rested himself instead across Frankenstein’s bed, propped up amidst a sea of plush pillows and silk. He looked back, gazing at Ragar expectantly. 

Ragar, observing him with care, remembered their first such experiences together, now so long ago that he found himself uncertain. But for Raizel, who was forced into such a long sleep, there had not been such a long gap between how they were then and how they were now. 

Frankenstein had taught Raizel with a gentle tenderness, and when he—brilliant human that he was—had realized Ragar's feelings for himself and his growing fascination with his master, he introduced Ragar into their play as well. In Frankenstein's eyes, Raizel had been neglected for far too long, and additional, pre-approved lovers would never be unwelcome. Such things could also be said about himself, if he was in a mood to be honest.

Raizel, who had never allowed himself to want before, abruptly found himself wanting. And Ragar, who hadn't known what it was that he had wanted, and who had held Raizel well above himself on a pedestal for eons, now knew that Raizel enjoyed love, wanted it, was beautiful in it. And his answering affection was nothing if not sweet. 

And oh, how they both loved Frankenstein. 

When he walked into his room, he was dazzled by the sight of his Master and his dear friend, meticulously intertwined with great deliberation and care. Both were lightly flushed as they parted, turning to look at him with eyes so similar in hue but so vastly different in character. 

A smile split his face at two such welcome companions tangled up and waiting in his bed. He opened his bond with Raizel to send him his praises and affection. To Ragar, he quirked his brow in amusement, conveying his impression of their compromising, scandalizing position without ever needing to resort to words. 

Wordlessly, he began to remove his own clothes, contributing to the neat pile now keeping the pineapple cat company. 

"Frankenstein."

He halted, stripped bare to the waist and unbuckling his belt. "Yes, Master?" 

Raizel's head tilted back in regal arrogance, a pose that made Frankenstein’s pulse quicken and his breathing turn harsh. "You are late."

"Apologies, Master. I—"

"And you have failed to properly be enthused about your hard won gifted dinosaur," Ragar quietly interjected, bringing Frankenstein up short. Frankenstein narrowed his eyes at him at both the interruption and his ridiculous complaint. 

"Ragar will decide your punishment." Raizel's eyes glimmered with a deep jewel mischief, as alluring as the powers within his blood. He turned back to trail graceful fingers along the smooth ridges of Ragar's stomach, sliding the sheer fabric of his shirt up in a teasing display of pale skin and shadow. 

Ragar shivered at the touch, his eyes half-lidded in anticipation for those hands to explore him entirely and pick him apart as was Sir Raizel’s due.

Impolite, indecorous, insolent, scandalous, absurd. Perhaps those were once words an antiquated, mind-numbingly formal Lukedonia would have used to describe their scene, but things had changed— _they_ had changed—such that their shared wantonness, their intimacy, both physical and beyond the physical, were unabashedly shameless. They had learned, after many trials and many personal adventures with such a human as impolite, indecorous, and insolent among other things as Frankenstein, how to make things feel perfect to each other.

Moments such as these had taken the pair of Nobles a while to learn to construct. Raizel had picked it up more quickly, to be sure. His bond with Frankenstein allowed him that. Ragar had grown accustomed to Frankenstein’s tastes slowly and over the course of a millennium, his own knowledge hard won. 

And so, Ragar met Frankenstein’s gaze with an arrogant confidence all his own, proud and knowledgeable of his own lovely form, before turning his attention back to rest solely on Raizel. With smooth fluidity he caressed his slender neck, tilting Raizel's head back with his hands and kissing lavishly at his throat. "Tonight, Frankenstein, you will do nothing but watch." 


End file.
